


five steps ahead (six steps back)

by a_novel_idea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Days, Depression, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:46:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5556626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_novel_idea/pseuds/a_novel_idea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are good days and there are bad days.</p><p>There are days in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five steps ahead (six steps back)

There are good days and there are bad days.

Good days are coffee and meetings, plotting and planning, and noise, noise, noise. Good days are early mornings and lunch breaks and a cake from the local bakery because you both have a sweet tooth neither of you will admit to. Good days are coming home together because it's where you know you belong.

Bad days are silence. Bad days are darkness, doubt, and fear that everything will go wrong (or, sometimes, that everything will go right). Bad days are when moving aches and clothing makes his skin hurt so bad he can barely stand to lay in bed, never mind get dressed.

There are days in between, when he has to be his brightest even though he'd rather be home; when he has to fight and claw and dig his heels in to keep what he's worked so hard to earn. (You've both worked too hard, sacrificed too much, killed too many to let a dull little thing like emotions get in the way now.) There are days when his skin doesn't hurt, but his joints creak, and his chest aches, and you know it would be so easy for him to just sit down and take a break, but he can't, not here, and not now because you have too much riding on this.

(You can only be six steps ahead if the first five go right.)

You're home for the first time in three weeks, and it is a bad day. There is an unfinished cup of coffee on the kitchen counter, and a broken saucer shattered across the floor. The curtains are drawn, and all the doors are shut, and it's so quiet it's like he woke up and decided that existing wasn't an option today. If you hadn't spoken to him on your layover in Berlin, you'd have been worried.

The bedroom is a mess when you make it that far; there are clothes on the floor, a towel over the bed frame, and all the blankets and sheets in the flat have been gathered on the bed. You can't see him, but you know he's there.

You deposit your rifle case in the corner; it will need a through cleaning, but it's not what needs your attention now. You strip out of your travel clothes that smell of airports and stale, recycled air, and forgo a shower; the noise and the heat and the weight in the leftover air will only make things worse.

You step out into the hallway to bump the temperature down, and can't decide if you imagine the disappointed noise that quietly escapes the linens. The ceiling fan is already running, providing the best white noise you can hope for, and you sink onto the mattress as gently as you can.

You settle in, relax and wait, (bad days mean the first move is not yours to make) and soon enough a hand creeps out to feather along your arm, fingers trembling and cool to the touch.

(You love these moments, because, while they are not what you fell in love with, they are what you need.)

Your hand follows his back under the blankets, searching for something to touch, to prove to yourself that he is as whole as you left him (which wasn't whole at all, was it?), and without quite realizing it you are just as cocooned as he is.

He is black hair begging to be tugged, pale skin meant to be worshipped, flesh and bone and something so perfect you'd never be able to pin point exactly what it is that keeps you coming back again and again. He is sharp angles against your hard-won muscle, smooth skin to your callouses and scars. You'd be worried he wasn't eating if you hadn't watched him pack food away like it might be taken from him at any time.

(Starvation is a bottomless pit that can never be filled.)

His eyes are blackened and dull, the product of too little sleep and too much work, and his lips are peeling so deeply you know they've bled. (He only gets like this when you aren't around to tempt him into bed.) His hands tremble and it's a toss up whether the cause is exhaustion or pain; either way it's unacceptable.

You take his hand in yours when he reaches for you and you do your best to avoid the joint at the base of his thumb. (You know it aches.) Slowly he slides towards you, obviously seeking whatever comfort he finds in you (you've never understood how someone so blessedly brilliant takes comfort in someone who has stalked prey and tasted the copper of their blood). You can see him doubting again, thinking that maybe he's the only one that needs this. (Who are either of you kidding? He is your relaxation and the steady flow of hot blood in your veins; you are is foundation, a firm hand on his shoulder, and the reason he comes to bed most nights.)

(You are the weapon, and you are his to aim.)

Your bring him to you, gather him against your breast bone like you would pump his blood for him if it lessened the pain at all, and you feel the relief creak through his bones. His breath is unsteady against your neck, but at least he's breathing; there will be time to fix everything else later.

You hate being away this long, hate the results of your absence, hate the way coming home makes you feel so useless despite how much you've accomplished. You decide to never go away again (and you know it is a lie, because when he asks it of you again, and he will ask, you will obey).

(You are only as good as he makes you.)

You know that tomorrow may be different, may be bright and good, or muted and in between, but it doesn't matter because you know it will be, and that has to be enough (even if it never is).


End file.
